Milkbag Mise'l

Mise’l’s appointments became the highlight of my week. Unlike most guys, who wear baggy sweatsuits or a trenchcoat to cover up entirely, he struts in wearing his still-sweaty gym clothes. He knows he looks intimidatingly huge in his tight tank and high-cut shorts. He knows his pecs are way bigger, proportionately, than the rest of his body. He knows that with every twist of his waist, the sexy sway of his oversized upper torso makes a loud sloshing sound like a half-full milk jug (appropriately enough).

More than anything, he knows that he’s going to leave about half the size that he walked in at. That’s enough to scare most of the big beefheads who walk in: being smaller, even if they’re still larger than average, terrifies them. But not Mise’l. He works his big beautiful body no matter what state it’s in. He’s a true alpha, although I don’t admit that to my coworkers.

I work at a clinic that handles a very specific medical phenomenon. See, a few years ago a specific type of Bovine Growth hormone released on the black market had a very interesting effect after prolonged usage of an excessive dosage. Those affected used about ten times the recommended dosage for about two years straight, so no one was really aware of the side effects at first. The first known case of Stunting-Mueger Syndrome was found in a strongman from Iceland.

The guy was well over 300 pounds, just a big burly barrel of mass, but his pecs were growing far more quickly than the rest of him. When he finally went to the doctor, they found that the size in his chest muscles was from developing stores of a milk-like substance in between the muscle fibers. While it looked like his muscles were just pumped from a good workout, the truth was they were secreting a potent substance that had to be “milked” out.

He wasn’t the first, either. All the patients with Stunting-Mueger Syndrome were the same: inhumanly puffed up muscleheads with an unhealthy obsession with getting bigger and stronger. Many would hesitate to see the doctor at first, not only because they thought their added chest size was due to their own musclebuilding efforts but also because they were all on so much black market chemicals that they didn’t want to admit what they were up to.

Even to this day there’s no cure for Stunting-Mueger but there is a treatment. Those with S-M just have to see a special clinic to have the fluid drained. Their bodies constantly made the stuff, so none of them could go more than a month without a draining. Those who tried to avoid getting “milked” (always because they wanted to see how much size they could put on as the fluid spread throughout their bodies, bloating them beyond capacity) always ended up calling 911 sooner or later. Sometimes the big dopes got so massive that their musclebound arms couldn’t bend to pick up the phone, or their swollen fingers were too fat to dial. Those guys always ended up screaming for help. Sooner or later a neighbor would stop by to investigate, discovering an immobilized pile of muscle, almost more sphere than human-shaped at that point, that sloshed as they rolled around.

Now that the public is more educated about this condition (and clinics like the one I work at are more commonplace) we don’t deal with situations that extreme anymore.

I get why the patients would want to fight the treatment. I see these guys walk in, casting big shadows as their huge bodies, more pumped with muscle than I could ever imagine necessary, flexed and bulged with every step. My eyes would go wide at these ogres, both in awe and shock that they would think such size necessary. Still, I never complained when I had to put my hands on all that dense flesh, so engorged with “milk” that every inch felt like a balloon that was ready to pop.

(What can I say? Muscleguys are hot, especially the ones who don’t believe “too big” exists.)

But post treatment, after the machines squeezed and pumped their bodies dry of their muscle-milk, they were always about half the size. Some brought a change of clothes. Others just wore their too-big outfits home, holding up the baggy pants with both hands and tripping over the loose, deflated cloth as they stumbled out the door.

But Mise’l wasn’t as self-conscious as these guys. He’d sign in with a grin and a wink and hop into the “juicing” machine (not an entirely accurate moniker for the device, but the nickname that stuck) like it was going to suck his dick.

None of the others ever mentioned this, but Mise’l claimed that getting juiced felt like a long, slow orgasm. “Seriously, it’s like getting the best head of your life on ecstasy--times ten. No joke,” he told me one day as he walked in, peeled off his sweatshirt and made his giant juice-bloated pecs bounce like big meatblimps. I swear he did it just for my enjoyment.

The device hooked up to each nipple, staying on by suction, while clamps around the arms, legs and midsection slowly compressed, forcing all of the liquid to the pecs. Most of the big guys would avoid eye contact with the thing that was going to take all of their hard-earned size away, but Mise’l was almost gleeful as he hopped into it.

“I dunno if you can hook my big milk jugs up today,” he’d say, making the massive piles of pec muscle bounce and flex as I tried to attach to his nipples. “They’re just too damned excited! Just like me, to be honest,” he added with a wink at his tented shorts. I blushed harder than ever before at that, of course, but he seemed unphased.

The machine would whirr to life and Mise’l’s eyes go wide, then roll around his head as he moaned in ecstasy. I’d hear the machine slurping, watch the big pecs bloat up as the milk was pressed from other parts of his body, then watch them slowly drain out as the tank in the device would fill up with that thick, creamy fluid.

Big Mise’l usually walked in over 300 pounds, his whole big juicy body packed with so much size I was often shocked he was still able to maintain his competitive arm-wrestling career. Then after getting drained, that big muscletick would get out of the machine, still muscular of course, but not much bigger than me. He still walked with the confidence he stomped in with when he was gigantic. That’s what was so sexy about him.

“I heard this muscle milk stuff is super anabolic,” he said one day as I powered the juicer down and removed the pumps. “They say fitness companies are fighting over your stocks of it. You guys are making a fortune of all my thick creamy goodness, aren’t you?” He licked his lips after saying it. God damn, was this guy flirty!

I couldn’t confirm to him directly that yes, the liquid had caused spontaneous muscle growth on a large scale in lab animals. But there were legal ramifications from using stuff harvested from actual people. Without permission, we had to just toss it away.

“Set some aside for me,” he whispered to me one day after leaning in so close I thought he was going to kiss me. “Nobody has to know. You know I’m you’re favorite.” He winked and I just about collapsed in a heap. Of course he was my favorite. That he knew how much I liked juicing him and still enjoyed my company made it that much more pleasurable.

I knew what he was doing. He could tell my eyes lit up when he walked in and he knew that his confidence, his body, even the musky smell of his sweaty body (which the tank exuded after it had pumped him dry) made my skin tingle. What I had for him was far beyond “feelings”--I was addicted to that big musclebeast; it didn’t matter if he walked in like a big tan pimple ready to be popped or if he had been drained dry and was lean and shredded, I wanted what he had and I wanted it all the time.

So I started saving small canisters of his milk in my fridge. I was too afraid of what I had done (which would have gotten me fired!) to admit to him that what I’d stolen for him, but I kept it fresh for some unknowable future moment when I would be glad to have them. I only took about a quart each time and altered the drain logs to cover my tracks. He knew the whole time what I was doing. I could see it in the twinkle of his eyes.

Then came the day that I heard him arguing with the doctors at the clinic. “I’m done getting pumped here,” he said confidently. He was huge, overdo for a juicing, filling up a XXXL tank top and most of the room, but he still poked the air with his plump fingers and fixed a stern grimace across his thick face. “I’m getting pumped at home from now on. I saved up and bought the equipment and I’ll take care of it on my own.”

Those afflicted with Stunting-Mueger signed contracts with our treatment agreeing to see it through with our facilities indefinitely. It was for their own good. I could see that the doctors didn’t want to let him go, but if he had the equipment at his own place…

“You won’t be able to properly milk yourself!” one of the doctors countered. “As big as you are right now,” he said, gesturing to Mise’l’s absurd bulk, you wouldn’t even be able to flip the switch, let alone strap yourself in!”

I had walked into the room just a minute before all this. “I want him,” Mise’l commanded. The doctors all glared at me, but my heart soared at that moment. I wanted nothing more than to hear those words.

I quit the clinic that day. Mise’l signed the releases to allow him to home-juice, setting a dangerous precedent for those suffering from Stunting-Mueger, and I got hired as his full-time “juice consultant.”

That first day I went to juice him, he said, “No juicing today.” His body was so big, every time he moved I could hear the milk sloshing around inside him. “Here’s what I want: we’re going to see how big you can make me. We’ll space out the sessions where you squeeze all the size out of me--and I’ll start supplementing with that milk I know you’ve been saving for me. It’s my own property, after all. Came out of my body! It’s time we put it back in.”

I couldn’t believe what he was planning, but of course I went along with it. Within a month he had blown up so huge he nearly filled his garage. He could barely move, but he continued to expand in size. “Once I’m bigger than every before,” he groaned, burdened by nearly 500 pounds of bodymass, “well milk it all out of me and I’ll start over again. Everything we squeeze out is going back in. I’m going to be the biggest bodybuilder ever…”

When he made this statement he already was. I coudln’t even see around him, and I had to climb up his massive, jiggly, liquid-packed pecs just to get to his mouth to feed him the soluiton we had drained from him before. He could wiggle his fingers and his toes and kind of jiggle his dick around a little bit (he was always hard; I would be too if I was the biggest human on earth) but otherwise he couldn’t move. I kept him company between milkings and kept him stocked up on the miracle anabolism milk I had squeezed out of him. Sometimes at night he would let me sleep on the gently rising and falling shelf of his pecs. I would wake up disoriented, then completely bowled over that the massive giant beneath me was a human, and he loved me.